


chronophotographic

by cravatsarecool



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Level of Horror, Canon-Typical spiders, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pre-Canon, Sasha would make a good Archivist, sasha-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27072352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cravatsarecool/pseuds/cravatsarecool
Summary: some tragedies do not unfold in one big, cinematic rush. Some tragedies simply unfold one photo at a time—Or, why Sasha transferred out of Artefact storage.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	chronophotographic

Artefact storage was huge. The conversation of Sasha’s co-workers grew faint as they returned from lunch, split directions, and fixed attention to various tasks. Like spiders, skittering off to their recesses. Even though the _click_ of Sasha’s footwear echoed off the walls, the others’ parting laughter seemed to be swallowed by the cavernous room.

 _In space, no one can hear you scream,_ she thought.

Tim from research would laugh her out of the room for such a classic nerdy reference. As if they weren’t both in the same prestigious, academic line of work. Well, not _exactly_ the same.

Sasha knew she was being negative. Artefact storage was on the same level as the research department, however much those paper-pushers liked to look down their nose at them. The Magnus Institute was, somehow, despite the supernatural nature of the subjects they dealt with, highly-regarded. There weren’t exactly a lot of jobs out there in heritage preservation. Especially not for someone as young as Sasha. She’d known that going into the field. At least she _had_ a job. An interesting one. And, if she expanded the definition a little bit, she _was_ working with historical objects. She supposed she had just expected a bit more field work and quite a bit less working with her hands. She picked at the skin there, her hands peeling from scrubbing them viciously every break she got.

“Alright, what terrors do we have in store today?” Talking to oneself. Never a good sign. But Sasha had to find some way to keep her spirits up. Her little chair in the far western corner was coming into view. In front of it sat a heavy wooden crate. New artefacts always came in heavy wooden crates.

She knew why, of course. Her co-workers had told her all the horror stories. Employees dying, losing limbs, going missing… The worst Sasha had so far was a soggy bag of thumbs and, as much that already showed up in her dreams, it hardly constituted a threat to her life.

She intended to keep things that way. Sasha James played it smart. She followed all the precautions: snapping on the regulation plastic gloves, pulling her hair back, and putting on goggles. _God_ , she hated the googles. She knelt down by the crate to open it. She hated this part too. The _creak_ of opening hinges was so obvious, so cliché. It made her feel like she was on one of those game shows—or maybe a prank show—and as soon as she opened the crate, something would jump out at her and the people watching would laugh.

Sasha kept the look on her face resolutely neutral so as not to give them the satisfaction. There was no reason for it. No one ever came by Artefact storage if they could help it. The place was oppressive.

Inside of today’s box was… hm. She didn’t actually know. There were two pieces to it, but they were not very large or weighty when Sasha lifted them out, always careful not to touch them with her bare skin. It looked harmless enough, but she knew better than to trust anything in here.

The artefact was covered with cobwebs. She supposed she should just consider herself lucky it wasn’t oozing or… _smelling_ of anything.

Both pieces were wooden, with elements of brass now as rusted as Sasha’s own poor, beaten chair. The first piece was about a tower about the size and shape of a brick and on top was some miniature version of a... telescope? It looked a bit like a lighthouse. The second piece was more complicated—a box on stilts, a crank, and what Sasha could only describe as a record table, but sitting vertically.

“What are you supposed to be, huh?” Sasha had never run into an artefact she couldn’t quickly identify. She’d only been working here about three months, but stuff didn’t often come in that was _this_ old. Maybe she could ask Gertrude who dragged it in. Whenever she got back from... Russia, was it?

Attached to the lighthouse-looking bit was the artefact’s identification tag.

“Zoopraxiscope.” the tag answered Sasha in a neat, cramped script. Which wasn’t really an answer. She still had no idea what that was.

Strictly speaking, she didn’t _need_ to know what it was. She just needed to record the usual tests: temperature, radio waves, EM radiation, response to various stimuli… But, despite herself, Sasha was actually beginning to feel excited about this artefact. She hadn’t been this curious about anything in the Institute. There was that familiar itch at the tips of her fingers. The urge to _know_.

So, heart racing, she temporarily abandoned her post. _You’re acting like some nervous teenager, nipping out of school!_ Sasha chided herself, fighting to suppress the smile that tugged at her face.

She didn’t end up getting in trouble. Fortunately, there was no one important who ended up crossing her path because, no, Tim didn’t count. Sasha met a very nice librarian named Martin who was able to find her a book on the subject.

A zoopraxiscope, as it turned out, was an invention by an English man named Eadweard Muybridge—”Nice spelling. You sure he’s English?” Tim asked, leaning over her shoulder—in the nineteenth century. It was one of the first devices for motion picture, projecting a series of photos frame-by-frame that had been printed out on a disc. The disc, when turned, gave the photos an illusion of movement.

“Oh, I think this sounds familiar! That’s the thing with the horse, yeah?”

“You mean like this?” Martin was hovering near the both of them. Using one of the library computers, he pulled up a black-and-white YouTube video of a galloping horse. The transition between frames was interrupted by slits of nothingness, like the blades of a turbine cutting through the image, but the horse’s cycle itself was smooth enough.

“Yes! Keep reading my mind like that and you and I will get along just fine, Mart-O.” Tim winked. “Better than fine, even.”

“O-Oh, I—”

 _I came here to_ actually _read, you know._ Sasha refrained from saying it because Martin looked quite nervous. Strange, because technically they were both on his turf. She chalked it up to Tim’s constant flirting, made her excuses, and left.

It was getting late in the day. Artefact storage was emptier and darker, even, than usual as Sasha returned to her station. The zoopraxiscope made a lot more sense now that she knew what it was. The box on stilts was the light source, the record table where the disc was placed. And that bit that had resembled a lighthouse would project the image against the wall. Simple, but a marvelous little machine.

Funny, though, she didn’t remember there being a disc sat atop on her chair.

It was glass and the right size, but where there should have been a ring of photos, the disc was entirely blank.

 _This is suspicious._ She knew it was suspicious. This was Artefact storage, Christ’s sake! Who knew how many things boxed up on those towering warehouse shelves could kill her? Still, now Sasha actually knew how this thing _worked_. She had to try.

Safety would not be forgone in this attempt, though. Sasha snapped on her gloves again—the hair, the goggles. She tinkered a bit, getting everything in order. Finally, she picked up the disc gingerly, and pressed it into the proper place. The disc stuck fast to her right hand. It wouldn’t let her pull away. Sasha didn’t know spiders even made web that sticky.

With a mighty yank and another snap, Sasha released herself.

 _Stupid_. _I’ll_ make _you reveal your secrets!_

Fuming now, Sasha wrapped her hands around the crank wheel, realizing too late the cold touch of bronze that registered against her bare fingertip.

Sasha’s muscles constricted as if she had been electrocuted. They started to move without her consent, noisily turning the handle. She continued turning and turning, gathering to an inhuman speed. Impossibly, the blank disc reeled to life.

The image shown was mostly blank, with only one black figure and vague shapes that suggested boxes. At first, there was no motion. She couldn’t look away. Sweat was beginning to bead at Sasha’s brow.

Then, the image slowly zoomed in.

The black figure seemed closer now, and she could see that it was lying down.

The cranking noise was thunderous. Sasha’s muscles were burning for her to stop. _Discs don’t have that many photos. It’s supposed to be looping by now. Why isn’t it looping?!_ she thought helplessly.

With each slit that punctuated every image, the figure grew closer, and more and more detailed.

It was… hurt? It was a woman.

No, Sasha realized.

It was _her_.

Her blood ran cold. Even the breath in her lungs shuddered. She tried to let go of the crank.

_Stop! Stop! Don’t show me—I don’t want to see this!_

Shaking and with tremendous effort, her left hand pulled free. Her right hand wheeled away, heedless of her silent pleas.

With one final _click_ , the close-up figure snapped into sharp relief.

Sasha was treated to the image of her own face, eyes wide open in the unmistakable stare of death.

She screamed.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first work for tma! it's high-key been a lot of fun to write! i'd appreciate if you let me know how i'm doin


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